It’s assumed that of all of the colours,
Blue’s the most misunderstood,
for where Yellow is mellow
and Green is serene,
Blue is the absence of ‘good’.
To some, Blue’s a feeling of sadness,
hence why they say, ‘playing the blues’,
but imagine what colours I’d sing of,
if you spent one day in my hues.
I’m the name of the sky (which is common)
and I’m saddled with scribbling the seas,
by children whose only description
of faint lines is that I am a ‘breeze’.
I don’t share in Red’s world-renowned passion
or am happy-go-lucky like Pink,
but in many odd ways am like Orange in my grief,
as I look at my pigment and think,
“How the grass would be greener if I could be Green
or regal like Purple or White,
as I pair with a shade that’s much fairer
and give birth to a portrait that’s bright.”
No one asks about Blue
for my past’s understood,
(or so by the critics I’m told)
that such slates have been called ‘wild’ and ‘longing’
while perceptions run deep in my mold.
So the next time you see me,
don’t say how I am, but ask,
“How is Blue?” if you will,
for I’m more than Picasso’s past season
and the oceans I’m trying to fill.
– Amy Struthers
(Image by: Steve Johnson)